


present mirth hath present laughter

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: the twelfth night au [3]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beltane, Canon-Typical Behavior, Cultural Differences, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Flirting, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Male-Female Friendship, Party, Politics, Weddings, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 05:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: As the first year of King Jonathan the Magnificent's reign comes to a close and the Beltane fires light, Delia and Cythera seize the day.Alternatively: party planning for fun, profit and politics.





	present mirth hath present laughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seori/gifts).



> Happy birthday to seori, and thank you to lisafer for the beta!

_What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;_

**_Present mirth hath present laughter;_ **

_What’s to come is still unsure;_

_In delay there lies no plenty._

_-Twelfth Night_

 

The summer of 440 was as sweltering as the spring had been dull, but it came with a measure of relief. Cerenne of Maren had married Jonathan of Conté, bearing a dowry and trade treaty that would keep Tortall’s coffers from running quite dry, and everyone who had sweated blood to make sure that the festivities went to plan left the capital to pass out with exhaustion. George had written a pungent letter on the subject from Pirate’s Swoop, where his idea of relaxation seemed to be exploring and improving the secret tunnels - but Delia was confident that his irritation derived less from the work surrounding the royal wedding and more from the king finally fulfilling a repeated threat by raising him to the nobility. Buri had gone with him to keep him from getting into mischief, and her letters to Thayet (brief, regular, admirably concise) said that every time someone called him Baron George he looked like he’d bitten a lemon.

 

King Jonathan and Queen Cerenne had gone to a picturesque and very private little hunting lodge on the lands of Fief Naxen for their honeymoon – two weeks and many unsubtle blessings in favour of a crown prince, preferably _soon_. Delia almost felt sorry for the new queen, with the expectations of a battered kingdom hanging on her slim shoulders. But she seemed a gentle, intelligent woman, and Jonathan liked her, so provided both of them continued to charm each other as much as they charmed everyone else, all should be well. Regardless of whether or not she was already pregnant when she returned from Naxen.

 

Delia absent-mindedly made a sign for good fortune in the shade of her cream-printed pink skirts and inched further back into the shade of the tree she was sitting under. Cythera was still out in the sunshine, sketching with a careless precision that took years to accomplish; Delia hoped her broad-brimmed hat would protect her from the sun, but knew from previous experience that a true artist would not be budged from their position until they were done, however uncomfortable. Sunburn would not register. Delia herself had realised halfway through her sketch of Castle Olau that her perspective was off and her proportions skewed, and had given up on drawing in favour of eating strawberries in the shade.

 

“We should return soon,” she announced, loudly enough that Cythera’s artistic reverie would probably be broken. “Sir Myles’ guests will be here by sixth bell.”

 

Cythera hummed absently, and smoothed a thumb over the thick, rough-toothed paper she was sketching on.

 

Delia twisted her hair up off the nape of her neck and tilted her head back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes and running her mind briefly through the preparations for tonight’s Beltane feast. Myles’ long-serving housekeeper had made many of the preparations according to instructions, but she had deferred to Eleni and Delia as if it were a challenge, which it almost certainly was – especially given the newfangled nature of some of their requests. Delia was determined that everything would be perfect. Eleni’s serene calm hid the iron certainty that it would be, if she had to light every last bonfire herself.

 

Alanna and Gary had taken one look at the event planning in progress, and had discovered an urgent need to hone their warrior skills. Repeatedly. For the entire week.

  
Delia was sure it was good for them, and equally sure that only Gary would have been any help - and Gary, to do him justice, was the prime minister. He needed a rest. Thom had offered his assistance, but since most of his suggestions had been explosive, Eleni had channelled his energy into inventing elaborate illusions for the children and fire spells for everything flammable. Thom liked to be impressive and enjoyed children’s unfeigned and unafraid adulation, and he had so often narrowly escaped burning down his lodgings that he was excellent at the counterspells.

 

“I never imagined you managing a fief,” Cythera said suddenly.

 

Delia opened her eyes lazily. “Why not? Many of our peers do.”

 

“You always seemed… above such mundane things.” Cythera added a miniscule scatter of hatching to her drawing. “Even before I knew you were the king’s confidential agent.”

 

“Goddess bless,” Delia said, closing her eyes again. “You say that as if I chose that path _deliberately_.”

 

“Didn’t you?”

 

“No. It just happened.” Delia stretched her toes – bare, because she’d kicked off her riding boots long before – into the warmth of the sun. “Nothing very much happened to me for eighteen years, and then I met Alanna, and a very large number of things happened in a short space of time.”

 

There was a pause.

 

“I correct myself,” Cythera said. “If someone had asked me, three years ago, I would have been perfectly confident that you would be managing Trebond by now. Every now and then I forget how disgustingly in love the two of you are.”

 

Delia smirked, and tucked away in the back of her mind the fact that Cythera hadn’t even hesitated to refer to her relationship with Alanna this time. That was progress. “Brave words from a lady who hasn’t handed a favour to any knight but Sir Gary in the last year and a half. What are you waiting for?”

 

“Gary to get the country back on its feet,” Cythera said, bittersweet and humorous, “for long enough to remember to ask me.”

 

Delia cracked an eyelid open, looking at the slight droop to Cythera’s shoulders. She wondered if she ought to mention the ring that Duke Gareth had casually mentioned retrieving from the family vault – a simple hoop of diamonds and blue topaz, a favourite of Queen Lianne’s when she had been a débutante, and specifically reserved for Gary’s bride by the queen herself. Alternatively, she could bring up the fact that Gary had asked Raoul how on earth he should propose to Cythera, and Raoul (wisely declaring total ignorance of the protocol involved) had sent him directly to Delia. Delia found Alanna’s friends’ reliance on her wisdom hugely entertaining – especially when it was the king asking desperate questions - but had been forced to inform Gary that if he’d been intending to marry Cythera for a year now and hadn’t yet had the courage to spit out a proposal, he should stop dithering and get on with it.

 

Or maybe she should let Gary come up with his own surprises.

 

“It’s not that he doesn’t love me!” Cythera said pre-emptively, as if her sister Isabela had already been vocal on the subject. “At least, I think he does. But the last few years have been… well…”

 

The half-silence stretched out into the heat. Cicadas buzzed. Delia and Cythera’s horses picked at the few remaining green leaves on the trees.

 

The Queen grew very sick and died, Delia thought, and you were her most loyal lady and her greatest support, and you mourned her like a mother. And then there was treason in the court, and you had to survive. And then Duke Roger ripped the country apart, and you fought for it. And then you had to make a home for a new queen, knowing you might be cast out of the place you’ve held for five years the moment the crown rested on her head.

 

Some credit was also due to Gary for fighting for his king, mourning his aunt, and dragging Tortall back in the general direction of financial stability, Delia allowed.

 

“Difficult,” Delia suggested. “You know, it’s Beltane tonight. You could ask him.”

 

Cythera’s head snapped round and she blushed furiously. “That’s – women of our rank don’t do that.”

 

“Women of our rank also don’t become spies or advisors to monarchs or King’s Champions,” Delia said, raising one eyebrow. “This is a new age, Cythera, take what it’s got to offer you.”

 

“But what if he says _no_?”

 

“He loves you,” Delia said. “Do you think he will?”

 

Cythera’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t have been this certain of Alanna. I saw the way you moved around her, before the coronation.”

 

Delia squashed her own blush firmly. “I wasn’t, but I thought finding out was worth the risk.” She sat forward and reached for her boots and stockings. “We ought to return.”

 

Cythera cast one last measuring glance at her sketch, and then wrapped the block of paper up and slid it into a satchel. “We should.”

 

They were halfway back, ambling slowly in the mid-afternoon sunshine, when Delia stirred in the saddle and remarked: “I don’t understand why you all rely on my romantic expertise. It’s not as if you haven’t got brains of your own.”

 

Cythera choked on a laugh. “You have no idea? Really?”

 

“Really,” Delia said. On the road ahead, a familiar red-headed figure trotted out from behind a hedge, and Delia smiled instinctively, raising a hand to wave.

 

“ _There_ you are,” Alanna yelled. “Thayet said you’d gone up towards the Whisperwater.”

 

“We decided against,” Delia called back, as they got closer. “Not as picturesque a view.” She looked at Cythera, and raised her eyebrows at Cythera’s broad grin. “What on earth, Cythera?”

 

“ _There_ ,” Cythera said, almost gleefully. “And you claim you don’t understand why people ask you about love. I should be telling _you_ to propose marriage.”

 

“Do you know how many priests have informed me that’s a theological impossibility?” Delia complained, and decided to blame her irrepressible blush on the sun.

 

 

By the time the light began to turn golden, Delia felt confident that the Beltane feast could be called a success.

 

The weather being so fine, Eleni and Delia had decided that the festivities should be held outside, with the Beltane fires in carefully tended fire-pits. Bazhir cushions and low tables and blankets carpeted sitting areas, and Thom’s delicate little lights sparkled in the orchards’ branches and the rose-gardens’ bowers. They didn’t seem to require any of his attention; he was currently painting dragons in the sky for an enthralled crowd who had no idea exactly how much casual power he was calling on, and who bestowed so much praise on him whenever he took a break that he began to look smug and talk about other mages’ absence of creative talent and the theorems behind the dragons. Delia siphoned him off when his audience began to look daunted by the learning that had gone into a midsummer game, and dragged him over to the food. The cooks were Eleni’s pride and joy, turning out roast joints of meat and summer salads of fruit and herbs, fresh flat-breads and dishes of grains and rose-petals, summer ices and cold lavender-scented creams, toasting little pancakes with tiny slices of fine smoked fish from the coast and dollops of soft white cheese, all washed down with good Tortallan cider, wine from Myles’ cellars, or cool drinks with citrus that made your lips tingle.

 

Most of this constituted a dangerous innovation, but a significant amount of it was inspired either by the Bazhir who had chosen to welcome Myles as family, or by the new queen’s tastes, so nobody felt free to be snide and everyone was dazzled by the sheer cutting-edge style on display. They all looked as if they were having tremendous amounts of fun, too, even faced with the alarming novelty of Bazhir musicians and the eastern Carthaki fashions that Queen Cerenne had inherited from her mother. Delia, Eleni, Thayet and Cythera were all dressed in versions of Queen Cerenne’s soft, loose skirts with broad colourful wraps cinching the waist, and Delia liked her mint-green and rose-madder so well that she was planning a few similar designs to commission for winter wear. Thayet, wearing palest primrose sashed with scarlet, had naturally walked off with the hearts of fully half the men present - although when Delia had last seen her, she and Cythera had been deep in a discussion with four other young ladies about the latest novel to take society by storm. Thayet, who had never owned a book that hadn’t passed through a censor and a chaperone’s hands until she was eighteen, had discovered a passion for literature; George kept taking her to disreputable bookshops in the Lower City, which Delia might have objected to if Thayet weren’t so hungry for new information.

 

Gary, alone of all the unattached men present, cast not one single sideways look at Thayet. He was watching Cythera like she was a queen in her own right, which was very satisfactory. Delia had high hopes of persuading one of them to admit to their feelings at _some_ point before they left for Corus.

 

“What have you done with the old tabbies?” Thom demanded, breaking Delia’s reverie.

  
Delia blinked. “Oh! You mean the dowagers.”

“The ancient cats Myles told you and Eleni were a waste of time to invite,” Thom prompted helpfully. A cookmaid turned a nervous giggle into a sneeze.

 

“I didn’t do anything with them,” Delia said. “I made the small lower gallery by the rose gardens available and installed a nice harpist and some card tables. They’ll be fine.”

 

“They’ll be gossiping,” Thom said.

 

“Please give Master Thom some of everything,” Delia said to the cookmaid, who nodded and picked up an enormous plate.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Thom pointed out, puzzled.

  
“You will be when you remember what time you last ate. The dowagers can gossip as much as they please.”

 

Delia smiled. Thom had undoubtedly noticed nothing, but she and Eleni had had a plan for the disapproving dowagers and matrons, and it was running perfectly to time. Delia had personally installed Lady Eula of Arenaver, seventy-four and chock-full of judgement, in a comfortable window seat several hours ago; she’d been back to lose a game of cards an hour and a half later. Lady Eula had signalled her approval – not very politely, but she’d signalled her approval – and had furthermore added that while she had been led to believe that Delia was unnatural, Delia seemed like a well-brought-up girl. Additionally, Lady Eula said, it stood to reason that if women were to be knights they would need someone to help them understand the feminine things in life.

 

Thayet, who had a decent idea of Delia’s influence over Alanna when it came to the feminine things in life, had gone temporarily wooden. But Delia flattered herself that they had carried it off well.

 

“Is that what this is for?” Thom demanded, tasting a spoonful of the grains with rose-petals cautiously. His eyes lit up as his brain remembered that his appetite existed, and he began to eat with enthusiasm. “A signal to half the south-west that you and Eleni are here to stay and will beat anyone who cares to challenge you at their own game?”

 

“Do shush,” Delia said. “It doesn’t do to be clever quite so loudly.”

 

 

The dancing began as the last rays of sunlight approached the horizon; the last note of the familiar Beltane hymn echoed in the air, and the flames of the firepits leaped high. Myles and Eleni opened the dancing, followed by Gary and Cythera and Delia and Thom – Thom seemed surprised when Alanna insisted on taking his place as the mage in charge of the fires instead of dancing, but Delia saw her laugh when Thom trod heavily on the edge of Delia’s dress, and knew that she was watching closely. Dancers wound their way around the firepits in the old measures Delia had known from her childhood, children and teenagers joining the circles, and after the first few dances were over a brave couple from the nearby village were the first to leap over one of the fires. There was a general joyful yell, scattered applause, and a few dirty jokes, and a young married couple ran and jumped after them.

 

Delia disengaged her hand from Gary’s as the next dance struck up, laughing and fanning her face with one hand. The fabric of her dress was light, the linen of her undergarments loose and unfussy, but the dances were fast and merry and she was rosy-cheeked and sweating. The apple blossom pinned into her hair had wilted, and the curls at the nape of her neck were sticking to her flushed skin.

 

“Check on Thom, will you?” she cried, over the noise of the dance. “I haven’t seen him for the last half an hour.”

 

Gary sketched a jaunty salute, and Delia laughed again and scooped up her skirts in one hand to give her more room to manoeuvre as she hurried away from the dancing, slippers light on the grass. There were still a few people eating, and she stopped to check all was well with the cooks before carrying on to the quiet gallery. There were still plenty of card-players here, although some had gone to sleep on the divans provided, and several children were curled up in a nest of cushions at the end of the gallery. Thayet was sitting with them; one little boy had his head in her lap, and Thayet was absent-mindedly stroking the hair of a village girl a few years older. Delia crossed the gallery, and knelt down beside her. Thayet lifted her head, and gave her a weary smile.

 

“I was telling them stories,” Thayet said. “The ones my mother taught me.”

 

Delia thought of the autumn of 439, in the camp of the Bloody Hawk; Thayet and Buri around the fire after communion with the Voice, telling tales of K’miri warrior queens and spell-singers.  She straightened the little girl’s dress on her shoulder, and brushed a lock of hair off the little boy’s face, and let Thayet think about what she wanted to say next.

 

“I miss Buri,” Thayet said. Her eyes were shining a little more than usual.

 

Delia wasn’t surprised. The separate holiday had been Thayet’s own idea, and Buri had gone along with it only reluctantly; Thayet was determined that Buri, still only fifteen, should have room to grow into someone who didn’t necessarily serve a princess. Buri, of course, cleaved to the notion that her oaths were permanent and would never be laid aside, but when George – always Thayet’s ally – pointed out that he might get into shocking trouble with no-one to supervise him, she’d agreed on three weeks. It had been a long two weeks thus far for everyone involved - not that Thayet complained, but she was more melancholy than usual, and kept looking round for a shadow who wasn’t there. She stuck very closely to Alanna and Eleni, too.

 

“You’ll see her soon,” Delia said, and was surprised by the gentleness of her voice. “Come here, you have a pin coming out.”

 

Thayet had her hair up in a knot, unlike all the Tortallan women, who were wearing their hair loose to honour the Goddess as the Bride, and the Bazhir women, who wore theirs veiled. Eleni had tucked red and yellow rosebuds into Thayet’s black curls, and pinned them in place; the effect was very pretty, especially with a few becomingly loose strands, but an anchor pin was threatening to escape and bring the whole chignon down. Thayet bent her head forward obediently and Delia pushed it back into place. 

 

“The K’miri don’t worship the Goddess, do they?” Delia said absently, twitching a rose back into place.

 

“No,” Thayet said. “We have… I suppose the closest festival would be the waking of Chavi Westwind, with the spring thaw.” She fell silent, staring into the middle distance.

 

“You must tell me about it tomorrow,” Delia said. “When you’re a little more awake.”

  
  
Thayet’s smile was bittersweet. “When I’m not missing my mother quite so much, you mean.” She sighed, and raked her teeth over her lower lip, shifting her legs infinitesimally to stop them going dead under the weight of the child’s head. “My mother sang her death not long after the Westwind Waking last year, so it’s not a time to celebrate any more, for me.”

 

Delia’s heart twisted. She remembered that pain all too clearly, although she had been much younger than Thayet, and although her mother hadn’t made a political statement of her death. She leant forward and opened her arms to Thayet, who curled into her for a moment, hiding her face in Delia’s shoulder. It was an awkward angle and they were both sweaty and there were children in the way, but at least it was something.

 

“Would you like me to ask someone to fetch Eleni for you?” Delia asked, when they separated. “And would you like a cold drink?”

 

“Yes please,” Thayet said, “to both.” The little boy stirred, and Thayet laid a soothing hand on his chest. “I don’t mind what.”

 

Delia chose two ciders for herself and Thayet – light, barely alcoholic, fizzy and sharp and cool – and told the maid to find Lady Eleni for Lady Thayet, before returning to Thayet and handing over a drink. She sat down, meaning to stay with Thayet, but Thayet shook her head at her.

  
“No. Circulate.” Thayet smiled again, a little palely. “I know what you’re trying to do, and you’ll ruin it if you sit by me for the rest of the evening. I’m fine.”

 

“Thayet –“

  
  
“Besides,” Thayet said cheekily. “I know you haven’t danced with Alanna yet. You can’t possibly think you’ll get out of that.”

 

Delia sighed at her, and got to her feet when Thayet giggled. She painted her company smile onto her face, and went to spend twenty profitable but boring minutes being the sweet Tortallan maiden for the dowagers and elderly gentlemen playing cards instead of dancing, or even watching the dancing. By the time she had finished her cider was empty and Eleni was sitting with Thayet, so Delia felt free to take another drink and walk out into the rose garden to stand in the cooling night air and breathe.

 

The rose garden was lit, but softly so, and it was too close to the noise of the party and the dowagers’ gossip for anyone to risk it as a meeting-place for an assignation, so it was both quiet and dark. Delia closed her eyes and tilted her head back into the moonlight, and took her first real deep breath since the first guests had arrived. She had never been religious, but there was something about the sweet air, and the even sweeter hope that Tortall might build itself back up into a better kingdom after two years that could only be politely described as tumultuous. She could taste success on the air, not quite in her grasp but almost there; Beltane felt like the promise of growth.

 

They’d know if the feast had worked as intended in the next few days, but they might have to wait the next few decades to be sure about Tortall.

 

Delia heard familiar footsteps behind her, soft in light boots but very definite, and smiled up into the clear sky.

 

“I’ve been looking for you all over,” Alanna said, reaching her side. Alanna was wearing a version of the clothing she had worn to present Jonathan with the Dominion Jewel; loose breeches and a long tunic in lilac linen, with a wide midnight-blue silk sash like the ones Queen Cerenne had inspired. She looked like she’d been having fun - her hair tousled, her cheeks a little flushed with smiling and her violet eyes bright. She was wearing the earbobs Delia had given her the previous Midwinter: simple studs of four small stones each, but made of sapphires and black opals, loaded with Thom’s Gift. Alanna could borrow her twin’s magic as easily as he could borrow hers.

 

Delia and Thom had no qualms about learning from their enemies, deceased or otherwise. Just because a treacherous duke had thought it was a good idea didn’t mean it wasn’t also a solid tactical advantage.

 

Delia found Alanna’s hand, and tangled her fingers with Alanna’s own. “For a dance?”

  
  
Alanna hummed, and squeezed Delia’s hand gently. “Later. I just wanted a bit of quiet, and I thought you would too.”

 

Delia glanced over her shoulder towards the gallery. “I don’t think we’ll find any this close to the party,” she said, regretfully. “Someone will come looking for me soon – to call Thom to heel, to sort out an argument among the maids, to get you to stop a duel –”

 

“I didn’t say we’d stay here,” Alanna said, tugging lightly on Delia’s grip. “And nobody’s going to be stupid enough to fight a duel here anyway.”

 

Delia allowed herself to be led deeper into the rose garden, past a thick hedge, and through another bower. “Sir Alanna, are you _absconding_ with me?”

 

“Pfft,” Alanna said, comprehensively. She was as surefooted as a cat in the darkness, and Delia had to hitch up her skirts again to keep up.

 

“I don’t believe this,” Delia complained, enormously amused. “An honourable knight of the realm, dragging an innocent maiden off on Beltane eve –”

 

Alanna stopped and turned, pulling Delia close and kissing her. “Rubbish,” she said. “Any minute now, you’ll say I stole your virtue.”

 

“Oh, my,” Delia said, laughing, and swore when Alanna pulled away and kept walking. Alanna merely snorted at her.

 

They ended up in the apple orchards, sitting on the grass and looking up at the stars. The orchards were dark and deserted, and the trees bent over them, heavy with fruit. The silence was not perfect – the party was not so far off that it couldn’t be heard – but it was quiet enough to be calm, and Delia felt a strange tranquillity settle over her. The moments between someone raising the dead, setting the country on fire or trying to invade Tortall were surprisingly few and far between. If someone had told her life would be this exhausting when she was at the convent, she might not have set her sights so high when she came to Corus.

  
Well, no, she absolutely would have done, but she might have been better prepared.

 

“Delia,” Alanna said after several long, blissful minutes, sounding gloriously shifty.

 

“Yes?” Delia said, preparing for some hideous revelation.

 

“Um – look at me.”

 

Delia straightened up a little from where she had been slumped against a tree and Alanna’s shoulder, and looked into Alanna’s eyes. They were always alarmingly earnest, and in the moonlight Delia could see a glint of violet nervousness in among the purple.

 

“What’s wrong?” Delia said, stomach sinking to the bottom of her dancing slippers.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alanna said hastily, “it’s just. It’s just – I love you.”

 

Delia’s jaw dropped, and she blinked for several seconds, which was enough time for Alanna to redden and look hurt. Delia scrambled for something to say, and instantly regretted what came out of her mouth, which was:  
  
“I must say you’re much more prompt than Gary.”

“What?” Alanna said, clearly baffled.

 

“Never mind,” Delia said, feeling shock fade away to be replaced by an overwhelming warmth. She looped her arms around Alanna’s neck, and rested her forehead against Alanna’s. “Not important. Kiss me.”

 

Alanna obliged. It was only several minutes later that Delia remembered that she had forgotten to say it back.

 

“I love you too,” she informed Alanna, before the lady knight could get the wrong idea.

 

“Good,” Alanna said, sitting up a little and then diving in for another quick kiss. “I’d ask you to marry me, if I could, but I don’t think a priest that sympathetic exists.”

 

“Ask anyway,” Delia suggested, contemplating sitting up herself and deciding that she couldn’t be bothered. She could see the stars from down here: the Lion, the Siren, the Goddess, the tiny star at the Goddess’ feet that Alanna called the Cat. “I might say yes.”

 

“Oh, no. If you’re going to be difficult about it, you can damned well ask _me_.”

 

Delia laughed at her, and sat up. Her crown of apple blossom had gone askew; Alanna neatened it with clumsy fingers, and Delia brushed dry grass off their clothes. One useful thing about the hot summer: grass stains wouldn’t give them away.

 

“We’d probably better go back,” Alanna said. “If you want that dance?”

 

“I certainly want that dance.” Delia got to her feet. “Take us back through the orchards, I don’t want to reappear from the rose garden all flushed and rumpled.”

 

“I thought you wanted me to ruin your reputation?”

 

“Yes, but not at your father’s Beltane feast. That would be a melodrama too far.” Delia neatened her skirts and twitched at the rose madder silk of her wrap.

 

Alanna led her a circuitous route through the trees, past the kitchen garden, and over a small retaining wall, until they found themselves at the shadowed edge of the party. Delia considered letting go of Alanna’s hand, and then she decided she wasn’t going to. Beltane was for lovers.

 

She walked forward towards the dancing and the fires, and Alanna walked with her - and then she saw a strange figure standing several feet ahead of them, and came to an abrupt stop.

 

Whoever it was – a lady, Delia realised, with loose curly black hair and a white robe belted in purple at the waist – was silhouetted by the fires. Delia couldn’t pick out her face, or tell the colour of her eyes. But suddenly Delia could hear the singing of the wolves in the royal forest and the music of the stars and children’s laughter in her ears, feel the pressure of the sun and the crispness of new snow, and knew that this lady hadn’t been on Eleni’s guest list. She didn’t need an invitation.

 

Delia swallowed against the dry lump in her throat. She was just wondering whether to fall to her knees in prayer when an unnervingly familiar cat trotted past them, paused just ahead of Alanna’s feet, and meowed. He had purple eyes, and if cats could grin, he would have been grinning.

 

“ _Faithful_ ,” Alanna gasped, and lunged towards him, but as ever the creature was far faster than her, and Delia felt almost as if she heard him laughing as he shot towards the lady in white, who picked him up in her arms. Even Alanna wouldn’t chase a cat straight into the arms of a deity, though Delia clutched at her hand in a panic, just in case she did; Alanna halted, but stared longingly after the animal.

 

Delia opened her mouth to ask how that could possibly have been Alanna’s cat, who had been killed during the Battle of the Hall of Crowns and quietly buried in a corner of Queen Lianne’s garden, and then closed her mouth again. Of course. Compared to the favour of the gods, everything else that had come to pass was a bagatelle. Considering everything Alanna had been up to, was it any wonder the Goddess had sent her a guide? If you thought about it logically, it was no different to sending Buri along with George to make sure the case of evildoers’ ears didn’t make a poorly-timed appearance at Pirate’s Swoop.

 

Delia’s whirling mind flickered through all these irrelevancies, and settled on a sudden thought – a memory of Alanna’s own words, not ten minutes old.

 

_I’d ask you to marry me, if I could. But I don’t think a priest that sympathetic exists._

 

Her breath caught in the top of her throat, and she stared at the lady’s face. Maybe this was another boon, of a sort - maybe a gift. If so, she would probably only get one chance.

 

“Alanna,” Delia said, stumbling over the words. She understood Cythera’s trepidation much better now. “Did you mean what you said earlier – about marriage?”

 

“Yes?” Alanna said. She was crying a little, and laughing softly, and staring at that little black figure in the lady’s arms. “Faithful, you menace –“

 

“Alanna,” Delia said, grabbing both her hands, tight. “A valid wedding is an exchange of promises conducted in the presence of a witness and in the sight of the gods the betrothed couple cleave to, with the freely given consent of both parties. _Will you marry me_?”

 

Alanna looked as if Delia had hit her in the face with a frying pan. She looked from Delia to the lady to the cat to Delia, and said faintly “Faithful counts as a… counts as a witness?”  
  
“I won’t argue if you won’t,” Delia said. Her hands were trembling, and her breath was shaky. “Alanna.”

 

Alanna took a deep breath, in the course of which Delia’s heart nearly stopped.

“Yes,” Alanna said, “yes, yes, _yes_ –”

 

She kissed Delia like Delia was all that was left in the world, never mind the dancers or the firelight or the party or the lady in white, standing witness among the Beltane bonfires.

 

When they broke apart, the lady smiled, and raised her hand, and turned away; the cat climbed up to her shoulder and raised itself on its paws, watching them. Alanna wrapped her arm around Delia’s shoulders and held her tightly; her tears, Delia noticed, had dried.

 

“Thom will kill me,” Delia said, voice unsteady, with laughter, or shock, or – or something she couldn’t begin to identify. “I forgot to invite him to our wedding.”

 

Alanna laughed a little hysterically, and for a few moments they stood there in the safe cloak of darkness, watching the fires. The lady in white had long gone, between one breath and the second, and the musicians were striking up for the next song.

 

“You still owe me a dance,” Alanna said.

  
Delia curtsied, and gave her hand into Alanna’s.

 

 

The only light in the sky was now the moon – low and full and golden, like a Beltane blessing – and the stars that shone around it. Fewer people were dancing; Delia searched the crowds for her friends and found Cythera, face glowing in the firelight as she watched Gary. He was laughing with Thayet, but when Thayet asked him for a dance he very clearly turned her down gently and glanced back at Cythera, smiling.

 

Delia squeezed Alanna’s hand and then let go, making determinedly for Cythera, Alanna hard on her heels. Cythera jumped when Delia called her name, and turned to look at them. She looked confused.

 

“Cythera,” Delia said, grabbing Cythera’s hands and swinging her round to face Delia. “It’s Beltane. You’re in love. What’s stopping you?”

 

“I,” Cythera said, “I don’t –”

 

“You don’t _what_?” Delia demanded. “Are you _scared_ , Cythera of Elden?”

 

Cythera scowled at her. “Terrified. What’s got into you, Delia, you look- “ she glanced at Alanna, who still wore that dazed and stunned and delighted expression – “the two of you look… What happened?”

 

“Nothing,” Delia said untruthfully, and knew that Cythera didn’t believe her. “Cythera! How much longer are you going to wait?”

 

 Cythera took a deep breath. Delia watched the steel settle into her spine, and iron into her jaw, and let go of Cythera’s hands.

  
“I hate you,” Cythera said, pointing meaningfully at her, “and if this fails, I will _never_ forgive you.”

 

“It won’t,” Delia said, falling back a step, reaching for Alanna and finding her close at hand, rough sword-calloused fingers closing gently on her waist. “It won’t.”

  
  
Cythera turned and marched towards Gary, who did a double-take and looked a little alarmed.

 

“What on earth was all that about?” Alanna demanded.

Delia shushed her. “Just watch.”

  
Cythera’s back was to them, but Gary’s face changed as Cythera spoke words they couldn’t hear - from shock to disbelief to all-consuming joy. Delia smiled triumphantly, and Alanna whistled piercingly as Gary kissed Cythera so hard he lifted her off her feet, and pulled something ring-shaped from his pocket. Cythera clapped her hands to her mouth, and looked up at Gary like he had personally hung every star in the sky for her. Someone shrieked at the romance of it all, and Delia listened to the ripples of gossip and congratulations spreading outwards.

 

“There,” Delia said contentedly, leaning into Alanna. Alanna was just slightly taller than her, which was a convenient kind of height; easy for kissing, but also very well suited to tucking herself comfortably under Alanna’s arm. “How’s that for a Beltane blessing?”

 

“Did you know that was going to happen?” Alanna asked, staring at her quizzically.

 

Delia felt a wave of affection wash over her. “Darling,” she said. “Of _course_.”

 

 

A week later, the whole houseparty assembled in the courtyard of Castle Olau to see Gary and Cythera off – not back to Corus, as had previously been planned, but to Elden, to celebrate their betrothal. Everything was in a perfect shambles, partly because Delia, Alanna, Thayet and Thom were all due to leave for Pirate’s Swoop the same day, and partly because any household Thom formed part of was almost guaranteed to be a shambles, even with Eleni organising it.

 

Gary and Alanna were still exchanging important thoughts about the realm, and Delia was eavesdropping out of habit, when Cythera came over to Delia. “I have something for you,” she said, producing something cylindrical wrapped in a layer of cloth and tied with ribbon. “Just a small thank-you.”

 

Curious, Delia pulled at the ribbon, and found that cloth and thick drawing paper spilled out into her hands immediately – the sketch of Olau that Cythera had taken the week before, painted with an exquisite hand. She must have been careful, to keep it a secret from everyone – except perhaps Thayet, who was smiling broadly.

 

“Cythera, this is _beautiful_ ,” Delia said. “Really, I don’t –“

 

“Thank you,” Cythera repeated, and then added with the sharp intelligence that Delia had learned to respect – “and congratulations.”

 

For a heartbeat, Delia wondered what Cythera knew or guessed, and what trouble she might make with it – but then she looked again at Cythera’s face, the softness in her cheeks and the sincere joy in her eyes, and relaxed.

 

“You’re far too kind,” Delia said, and smiled.

 


End file.
